By late summer, the light began to change.
It wasn't sudden. It didn't announce itself. The days were still warm, still long enough to forget the time if you weren't paying attention. But the color of the sky in the evenings had started to deepen earlier than before, slipping into softer shades while we were still outside.
I noticed it one evening as we walked toward the station.
She was a few steps ahead of me, her bag hanging loosely from one shoulder, moving with that same familiar energy. The streetlights hadn't turned on yet, but their glass tops reflected the sky faintly, like they were preparing.
"Did you bring it?" she asked, without turning around.
"Bring what?"
She stopped and looked back at me, unimpressed. "Your notes. You said you would."
"I brought some of them."
"That's not reassuring."
"It should be. I only forget the unimportant parts."
She sighed, dramatic and practiced. "You're unbelievable."
But she waited until I caught up before starting to walk again.
We didn't always walk at the same pace anymore.
I told myself it was nothing. Just a coincidence. Just different moods on different days. Sometimes she walked faster, sometimes I did. Sometimes one of us slowed down without meaning to, letting the other drift a little ahead before adjusting again.
I noticed when it happened.
I just didn't think it meant anything.
The station area was quiet that evening.
A few people stood scattered near the platforms, all facing different directions, all waiting for different things. The vending machines hummed softly, their lights too bright against the dimming sky. She stopped in front of one and stared at the options longer than necessary.
"You're not even thirsty," I said.
"I know."
"Then why—"
"I like choosing," she said. "It feels productive."
She finally pressed a button and took the can when it dropped.
"You didn't get anything," she pointed out.
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"I am fine."
She looked at me for a second, then handed me her drink. "Hold this."
"Why?"
"So I can get my sketchbook."
I took it without thinking, the can cool against my palm. She opened her bag, rummaging around until she pulled out the familiar sketchbook, edges worn, cover soft from use.
She flipped it open, resting it against the vending machine, and began to draw.
I watched the pencil move, the pauses between lines, the way her hand hesitated just long enough to decide something before committing. The station lights flickered on above us, one by one, casting a warmer glow over everything.
"What are you drawing?" I asked.
She didn't look up. "You."
I blinked. "That's not funny."
"I'm serious."
I glanced down at the page, but the angle didn't give me much. Just shapes. Lines. Suggestions of posture.
"I don't look like that," I said.
"You do when you're not paying attention."
"That's worse."
She smiled slightly but didn't respond. The pencil kept moving.
I felt strangely exposed, even though there was nothing dramatic about the moment. No one else was watching. No one cared. And yet, standing there, holding her drink while she sketched me beside a vending machine, it felt like something I should remember carefully.
I didn't say that out loud.
A train approached, its sound growing steadily louder until it filled the space between us. She paused, lifting the pencil just before the train passed through the station, blocking the view of the other side.
For a few seconds, everything else disappeared.
When the train was gone, she closed the sketchbook.
"I'll show you later," she said.
"You always say that."
"And one day I'll mean it."
We left the station shortly after, walking back into the neighborhood streets. The air had cooled just enough to notice. Somewhere nearby, a television played loudly through an open window. The smell of dinner drifted from houses we passed.
We didn't talk for a while.
Not because there was nothing to say, but because silence still worked between us. It settled easily, filling the gaps without tension. I walked slightly behind her, watching the way her shadow stretched ahead under the streetlights.
I wondered when I'd started doing that—walking behind instead of beside her.
At the convenience store, she stopped again.
"I'm hungry," she announced.
"You just had a drink."
"That doesn't count."
Inside, the fluorescent lights flattened everything. We wandered the aisles slowly, commenting on things we weren't going to buy.
She picked up a snack, then put it back. Then picked up a different one.
"You're terrible at deciding," I said.
She shrugged. "I like having options."
"You say that about everything."
She glanced at me. "Is that a complaint?"
"No."
"Good."
We paid and stepped back outside, sitting on the low wall near the store. She ate quietly, legs swinging slightly, gaze unfocused.
"School starts again soon," she said.
"I know."
"You don't sound excited."
"I'm not."
She laughed softly. "That figures."
We sat there longer than necessary, watching people come and go, the sky darkening steadily above us. A few stars appeared, faint and uncertain.
I thought about how many times we'd sat like this, in different places, doing nothing important. I thought about how easily these moments blended together, how difficult it would be to separate one from another later.
And for the first time, the thought made me uneasy.
"Do you think," she said suddenly, "that we'll still do this next year?"
"Do what?"
"This," she said, gesturing vaguely around us. "Just… meet like this."
"Why wouldn't we?"
She didn't answer right away.
"I don't know," she said finally. "Things change."
"They don't have to."
She looked at me then, really looked, like she was measuring something.
"Sometimes they do," she said.
The words weren't heavy. She didn't sound sad. Just thoughtful. Observant.
We walked home together after that, but the silence felt different. Not uncomfortable. Just… noticeable.
At the corner where we usually parted, she stopped.
"I'll text you later," she said.
"Okay."
She hesitated, then added, "If I don't fall asleep first."
I smiled. "Of course."
She smiled back, smaller than usual, and turned away.
I stood there for a moment, watching her walk down the street, her figure shrinking as the distance grew between us.
I told myself nothing had changed.
But as I turned toward home, the street felt longer than it used to.